


almost (sweet music)

by arabybizarre



Series: to noise making (sing) [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Language Barrier, One Shot Collection, Pre-Relationship, Romance, so good together, these two are just
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-07 22:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabybizarre/pseuds/arabybizarre
Summary: A series of one-shots following Dorothea & Petra over the course of the game and beyond.Chapter 1: Petra can't quite find the words to explain why hearing about Dorothea's dates is so upsetting to her, but she's slowly figuring it out.





	1. would that i

**Author's Note:**

> It's a testament to how great this game is that I can't decide who I ship more. In any case, Dorothea/Petra is adorable and I just had to start writing.

A huntress born and raised, Petra Macneary had been taught young to use her weapons wisely. In fact, it was her grandfather, the King of Brigid, who first placed a knife in her hand, solemnly explaining that there were only two reasons she should ever use it: either to feed her people or to defend them against harm.

In nearly seventeen years, Petra had never broken this rule—not once. She fought now at the Officers Academy, but in its own way, even that was for the people of Brigid. It was also for her classmates who, while sometimes so different and difficult to understand, had become her people, too.

In Petra’s eyes, her grandfather’s words were cardinal laws. She’d never once considered breaking them.

That was, until Dorothea Arnault came into her life. More specifically, until Dorothea Arnault sat on the floor of Petra’s dorm, eyes glistening sadly as she described yet another in a string of failed dates.

“They must think I’m some kind of fool, these knights. Just a commoner with a pretty face.”

Petra’s jaw tightened. She had to force herself to relax her hands as she carefully plaited Dorothea’s hair. She didn’t want to hurt her.

It was difficult for her to put her words into Fodlan’s tongue on any given day, but especially so when anger roiled her stomach. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to come up with a proper response. Maybe Dorothea took her silence for something else as she quietly continued, “Can you believe it? He had the audacity to ask me who I bedded to secure my place here.” Dorothea shifted uncomfortably, playing with the hem of her skirt. “He just laughed in my face, as if it were all a joke. As if _I_ were a joke.”

Petra’s hands had stilled in her work, her lips thinned to a hard line. She had never broken her grandfather’s rule. She wouldn’t raise blade or bow to a knight of Seiros. But perhaps a _threat_ would be enough—

“Petra?” Dorothea’s voice was smaller than it should have been, almost embarrassed. Petra dropped the unfinished braid, allowing her work to unravel, and slid around so that she was facing her friend. The dearest, in truth, that she’d had since leaving Brigid. Since before then even.

“Dorothea,” Petra cleared her throat, feeling hot in the cheeks. She was very aware of the knife she always carried with her, the one her grandfather had given her. “It is giving me… I mean, I am having much…” _Iretta, _that is how they would say it in Brigid. Anger, yes, but a protective sort of anger that a person typically reserved for their loved ones. Anger on another’s behalf. Petra was struggling to figure out how to say that, however.

“I am not understanding,” she went on, unabashedly frustrated, “why you would be wasting time on these men.”

“What?” Dorothea blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, Petra’s outburst wasn’t it.

“They are not having worth… not enough to be dating to you. I am full of much anger when I think about these men saying such things to you.”

“Yes, well, imagine how I feel,” Dorothea muttered, staring down at her lap.

“Then why are you allowing it?”

Dorothea’s gaze snapped up to meet hers suddenly. Her green eyes, at first wide and glassy, narrowed in stony defense. The heat in Petra’s cheeks rose in response. Dorothea had never looked at her like that before.

“Why am I _allowing it?_ Do you think I just stand there and take it?”

“No, I am not…” Petra’s tongue felt clumsier than normal. Why were the words so hard to find? If only she could speak her mother tongue. If only Dorothea could understand. “They just all are seeming so alike, but you continue—”

“It’s not like I let them get away with it. Despite my looks, I’m not some willowy flower. You _know_ that, Petra.”

“But still it is hurting you. And still you are seeing them?”

“I’m doing this for my future,” Dorothea insisted, gritting her teeth slightly.

“I am just… I am trying to say—your future can be more than those men.”

Dorothea began to stand, gathering her things, and Petra followed. She was nervous, unsure. Dorothea was usually so patient with her, but Petra just couldn’t make her understand now what she meant to say.

“Maybe things are different for princesses,” Dorothea pressed on hotly, gathering her hat and the old Mittelfrank programs she’d brought to show Petra that day. “You have security, and I’m happy for you, truly. But not all of us have luxuries like that.” And she strode toward Petra’s door, she turned back once more. The indignant hurt in her eyes was sharper than the knife on Petra’s hip. “If there was anyone I thought for sure would understand that, it was you.”

Long after the door to her room closed, Petra stood there staring at it, still struggling to find the right words for what she’d meant to say.

* * *

That night, Petra didn’t sleep much. Instead, she tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling, thinking about her conversation with Dorothea. More than anything, she thought about the hurt in her eyes. She reminded herself that _she_ was the cause of it, and that maybe she’d broken her grandfather’s rule after all. For words were weapons, too, and Petra had not used hers at all as she’d intended.

Her exhaustion shone through the next day during class. Byleth had directed them to the training grounds for a lesson in form. Petra had been paired with Caspar, someone she’d normally considered to be of equal or lesser skill than herself. Yet somehow, he’d caught her unawares so many times that the professor had forced her to sit and watch the others instead.

Petra had caught Dorothea glancing at her with a strange furrow in her brow as she loped over to the sidelines, embarrassed by her poor performance. However, just as soon as her gaze was returned, the songstress turned her attention to Bernadetta, chin held high.

Petra had trouble finding the words for how that made her feel, too. She only knew that she had been shot with arrows twice before and stabbed in the thigh once, and all seemed preferable to this treatment. She also knew that it was her own fault.

That evening, she took her meal in the dining hall by herself. Fodlan’s normally bland food seemed more tasteless than usual, a fact that made her yearn for home ferociously. If she were home, she’d know exactly what to say. But if she were home, she might not know Dorothea. The trade-off didn’t seem fair.

The sound of a throat clearing pulled Petra from her contemplation. She looked up to find the professor staring down at her, her typically placid blue eyes tight with concern. “Petra, do you mind if I sit?”

Petra nodded, “I would not be minding at all.”

Byleth wasn’t carrying a plate of food. Just her usual stack of books as well as an apple. She set both down on the table and sat facing Petra.

“I should be giving you apologies, Professor,” Petra blurted almost as soon as the other woman was seated.

“Why is that?”

“For our trainings, today. I was not giving my best performance.”

“I noticed,” Byleth gently told her, “though you don’t have to apologize for that. We all have off days.”

“Yes, that is truth. But I was… well, I could have been fighting better. I should have been.”

The professor scrutinized her in that calm, piercing way of hers for but a few moments before asking, “Are you not feeling well?”

“No, I am…” Well, she wasn’t sick or injured, but Petra couldn’t say that she felt _well_. “I am all right, Professor,” she sighed, pushing the food around her plate disinterestedly. “I was only having distractions today.”

“What’s on your mind?” Byleth asked, picking up her apple and taking a large, crunching bite.

_On her mind._ It took Petra a second to recall that particular colloquialism. Once she figured it out, she debated whether or not she should be honest. Byleth had done her the kindness of turning her attention to her apple, but her concern still left Petra feeling exposed.

She wasn’t sure what else to do, however, and so she pushed forward her mostly uneaten plate of food and confessed, “I am having worries that I have hurt Dorothea.”

Byleth slowly swallowed her bite of apple, a curious look on her face. “I find that a little hard to believe.”

“You do not have to be believing me,” Petra curtly replied, cheeks flushing almost instantly after. “I am having apologies again. What I am meaning… I was not intending to be hurting Dorothea, ever. She is my dearest friend. But sometimes it is hard for me to be saying the right thing, and I said something to Dorothea that was wrong. And I am thinking I hurt her.” She shook her head. She couldn’t determine if she felt worse or better for telling someone. “She has not been speaking to me since I said the wrong thing.”

“Ahh,” it all seemed to make sense to the professor. She took another bite of her apple, mulling it over. Eventually, she said, “I must admit, I’m not very good at saying the right things either and this is my native language. I’ve said plenty of regretful things in my life.”

Byleth set aside her apple core, turning to Petra fully. “I don’t know what you may have said to Dorothea. I don’t expect you to tell me. I’ll just say, from my point of view, if there’s anybody who’d be willing to forgive you for it, it would be her. It’s quite obvious…” Byleth trailed off, as if there was something more she meant to say, but thought better of it. “Well. She’ll listen if you speak. Trust me. Words may have gotten you into this mess, but they’ll get you out, too.”

As Petra considered this advice, the professor stood, gathering her books and her apple core. “Handle things how you see fit, Petra. But it’s best not to let miscommunications linger.” With that the professor squeezed her shoulder, smiled, and was off.

* * *

The sun set hours before Petra worked up the nerve to take her professor’s advice. As she stood before Dorothea’s door the near-full moon shone brightly overhead, a blanket of piercingly bright stars glimmering besides. It would have been a perfect night, if not for the knots in her stomach.

She had been practicing what she would say and how to say it. She’d even stopped by the library after she’d left the dining hall to brush up on her linguistics. Fodlan’s language could sometimes feel clunky—even downright illogical—compared to the fluidity of Brigidian. However, she was nothing if not determined, and a fighter in all things, especially in fighting for the ones she cared about.

Dorothea opened the door only moments after she knocked. Petra hadn’t thought it too late, but it appeared the other girl was already in her nightclothes. It did give her pause, pulling an unexpected blush to her cheeks, but she had to press on.

“Hello, Dorothea.”

The songstress looked half annoyed and half happy to see her. How she normally looked around Petra, in any case. But when she realized who’d come knocking, she forced a neutral expression. “Oh. Hi.”

“It looks like you are preparing for sleep,” Petra said, clearing her throat. “But I was hoping we could be speaking for a moment.” She paused, correcting herself. “Or that I could be apologizing.”

Dorothea shifted from foot to foot, considering this. Finally, she looked over Petra’s shoulder and sighed. “Come in.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, Petra was hit by the natural aroma of the room. It was like a mixture of lavender and fresh linens and something that was distinctly Dorothea herself. She couldn’t quite tell why, but it always seemed to put her at ease, especially in this moment.

“I was getting ready for bed,” Dorothea insisted, looking a little uncomfortable. She was glancing anywhere but at Petra. “I’m rather tired.”

“I am understanding,” Petra told her softly. “All day—since we last were speaking—I have been wanting you to know that… that I am sorry,” she said, just as she’d practiced it. “I am thinking what I said last evening hurt you and I just… I am filled with much regret and shame.”

Dorothea looked up at her, green eyes certainly tired and a little bit sad. The hurt was still there. And so Petra continued, stepping closer. “I have many troubles finding the words in your language sometimes. All I was meaning to say yesterday was… well, I am thinking that I have never known anyone with a heart as full of generosity or as full of care as yours. I am not understanding how someone—someone you have been dating, especially—could not be seeing that.”

Dorothea bit her lip. Petra had said all that she’d practiced, but there was more. She reached out to take one of Dorothea’s hands, relieved when she let her. It was warm and soft as she cradled it between her own.

“You are strong and beautiful, like a character in the books I was reading as a child in Brigid. I know you will be doing what is right for you, because only you can have understanding of what that is. I was only meaning last night…”

Finally, her confidence seemed to fade. What did she mean, exactly? It wasn’t so much a word, but a feeling.

Dorothea looked up at her, eyes shining. “What did you mean?” she asked softly, patiently.

Petra swallowed. There were so many words in her head, some she still couldn’t grasp. Some she would only be able to say after much more practice, much later on.

For now, she only sputtered, “Any man who does not treat your heart how it deserves to be treated I will be filling with arrows.”

For a moment, Dorothea said nothing, leaving Petra to wonder if she’d made yet another mistake. But then Dorothea laughed—a sound as musical as any Petra had heard before—and threw her arms around her. Petra was too shocked to move for a moment, but when she felt Dorothea’s arms tighten, her chuckle vibrating against her ear, she was moved to hold the songstress in return.

“That’s ridiculously sweet, do you know that?”

“It is only the truth,” Petra said in return, feeling immeasurably calmed by her friend’s embrace.

“I accept your apology,” Dorothea told her, pulling back just enough to look her in the face. “And I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have given you the cold shoulder. I was just… I hated to think you were judging me, or thought less of me—”

“I couldn’t,” Petra shook her head. “I am always thinking the most of you, Dorothea.”

Dorothea’s smile gentled. “Yes, you are.”

“And I will be thinking more of my words before saying the wrong thing. Or saying words with anger.”

“You don’t need to, Petra.” Dorothea pulled her back into her arms, holding her softer this time. She placed a feather-light kiss on the crown of Petra’s head and assured her, “You words are perfect.”


	2. talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Petra teaches Dorothea how to speak her language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned, I did make up some words here. It seemed a better idea to make up a language than to try to emulate a real one and butcher it terribly. I know nothing about linguistics, so if even the structure of this *made up* language seems nonsensical... y'all don't gotta yell at me.

Back home in Brigid, Petra was always taught it was better to speak with actions than with words. And if one must use their words, then one should speak simply and truthfully, as much as with the mind as with the heart.

As she’d not yet come to master the language of Fódlan, Petra had embraced this maxim of her homeland, choosing to speak with her actions more often than not. She fought steadfastly, hunted respectfully, and treated those around her with as much kindness as possible. For Petra, that was a language all its own, one all her friends could understand.

Dorothea was always different though. She used her words with cunning and sweetness and seemed to be singing, even when there was no melody to speak of (or perhaps it was just that Petra so often heard music when she was around). Hers was a language more elegant than the Brigid-born princess would ever hope to emulate.

Maybe that’s why she was so surprised when one day, as they walked the grounds of the Officers Academy together, enjoying one of autumn’s unseasonably warm evenings, Dorothea announced, “I want to speak Brigidian.”

“You do?” Petra’s brow furrowed in surprise. They had slowed to a stop upon one of the parapets outside of the cathedral. From here, they had a full view of the late afternoon sky—a soft, pale blue dappled with bands of pink and cottony white clouds.

Dorothea set her elbows upon the low stone wall and looked to the setting sun and the forests beyond. With a closed-mouth smile she nodded and glanced sidelong at Petra. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. You’re always working hard to understand others, to speak their language.” For the briefest moment, Dorothea’s gaze turned uncharacteristically shy. “I’d like to do the same for you.”

Petra bit her lip, forcing down an unexpected lump in her throat. What Dorothea had said was true. It was hard work, thinking in two different languages, translating thoughts made in her mother tongue to sentiments suitable for Fódlan. But Petra was a hard worker by nature. She hadn’t come to Fódlan by choice, but in many ways, she’d enjoyed the challenges it had presented her with.

Still, Dorothea was _always_ different. The interest she’d taken in Petra from the beginning felt somehow more… intimate than what she’d experienced with the others. For so long, Petra had told herself this was merely the deepening of friendship. Lately, however, she was starting to wonder if it wasn’t something more.

“If you are truly wanting that, Dorothea,” Petra pressed on, trying to banish her more nerve-wracking thoughts, “I would be wanting very much to teach you.”

Dorothea smiled, showing her teeth, and squeezed Petra’s hand. The younger woman wasn’t so sure that the songstress wasn’t already speaking her language.

* * *

Her dorm room floor was a mess of books, quill pens and ink, and sheafs of loose paper. Petra had never had much experience teaching anything unrelated to hunting, fighting, or weapons maintenance, but she supposed Dorothea had already plied many lessons from her: lessons in Brigidian hair braiding and cuisine among them. Language should not have been any different, but for some reason, this particular subject made Petra’s palms sweat.

Her handwriting was messy and a little unsteady as she scrawled an alphabet and a simple set of words for Dorothea to practice. Her left hand smudged the parchment as she wrote, streaking her hands with blots of black ink.

But Dorothea was a diligent student, and Petra found that few things warmed her more than hearing the words of her homeland on the songstress’ lips.

“I can’t say it like you,” Dorothea chuckled, almost embarrassed. “The words just don’t seem to come out right.” They were practicing common phrases—pleases and thank yous, greetings and farewells. “Is that what it was like for you, learning our language?”

“It is still feeling like that for me sometimes,” Petra laughed. She was on her belly, scrawling out more words for Dorothea to practice later, when she was alone. Dorothea sat across from her, leafing through one of the books on Brigid she’d taken from the library.

“I wouldn’t have guessed the words would _feel_ so different.”

“I will be telling you something I have learned,” Petra said, propping herself on her elbow. Dorothea watched her expectantly, studiously. Her gaze felt somehow more… attentive than usual, a fact that left Petra feeling anxious all evening. “In Fódlan, you are speaking with the middle of your mouth. That is not how we are speaking in Brigid. We are pushing our words to the tip of the tongue, almost through the teeth. If they are in the front they are not getting stuck on anything in the back,” Petra smiled. “Is that making sense?”

“I think so,” Dorothea considered, visibly running the tip of her tongue along her teeth. Petra’s eyes caught the motion, and a blush rose in her cheeks unbidden. If she’d thought these _academic _pursuits would at all distract her from the intense and sometimes confusing emotions she’d been feeling of late, she was evidently quite wrong.

Petra sat up suddenly, searching her desk for a distraction, some way to demonstrate what she was saying. Eventually, she found just what she was looking for.

She held the book very carefully in her hands. It was a thin tome compared to the volumes from the library, and far more worn. The spine was crooked and slightly cracked, the pages a little weathered. Its wear was part of the reason why Petra had stowed the book in her desk to begin with—to protect it.

“I will be reading to you for a few minutes, if that is okay? When I was first coming to Fódlan, it gave me much help to listen and to watch the way others were speaking.”

“Good idea,” Dorothea agreed, sitting up straight to mirror her friend. “I should watch _very_ closely,” she teased, sliding forward on the floor so there were only a few inches between their knees. “What are you reading me?”

“A book that is… the most special.”

“Why is that?”

Petra showed her the cover. It was a faded burgundy, with gold embossed lettering and a wolf outlined beneath the title. “This book was once belonging to my mother when she was small, and then belonging to me.”

“Your mother,” Dorothea wondered aloud, “You’ve never spoken much of her.”

“That is because I am not remembering much of her,” Petra admitted. “I was not even having six years when she passed beyond.”

“What happened?” Dorothea asked gently, her brow furrowed.

“She became very sick. The illness—it was in her lungs. I am always told she was very strong but…” Petra shrugged, not quite wishing to say more. The people of Brigid did not believe in the permanence of death, as souls passed on, and could always be made new again. Still, Petra had lost the warmth of both of her parents fairly early on in life. It wasn’t something she cared to speak of often.

“I’m sorry.” Dorothea put a hand on her knee and squeezed.

Petra shook her head, feeling the weight and warmth of that touch even after it left her knee. “As I was saying, I am not remembering much. But,” she perked up, opened the book. “I am remembering her reading to me before sleep, stories of hunters and animals. Spirits. I was always liking this book more than anything.”

“What is it about?”

“There is a young hunter who is killed defending his clan from great danger. For his courage, his spirit is made new again in the body of a wolf. And the wolf returns to protect his family and the girl he was loving very much.”

“That sounds… a little sad. For a children’s book.”

“Why is it being sad?”

“Because the hunter dies,” Dorothea says, as if it were that simple.

“His body perishes. But his spirit passes beyond, and he lives again as the wolf. He was only ever wanting to be protecting his family, and to protect his _pérasprit. _And that is what he does.”

“_Pérasprit?”_ Dorothea tried, the word a little clumsy, but pulling tightly at Petra’s chest. “What is that word?”

“In your language it would be meaning… ‘soul kin’ or ‘soul belonging.’ But not ‘belonging’ like… you are having ownership. But like another soul is belonging with your soul.”

“Like a soulmate? That’s what we always sang about in the opera,” Dorothea chuckled, almost sadly.

“The souls are mated? Yes, I am thinking that is the same thing.”

Dorothea considered this for a moment, resting her chin in her palm. “So the hunter protects his _pérasprit_—am I saying that right?”

“Yes,” Petra nodded happily.

“Hmm. And your mother read this to you as a little girl?”

The princess nodded again. “It is just one version of a story that has been told for many generations in Brigid.”

Dorothea’s green eyes turned to her, and she smiled. “I would love to hear it.”

And so Petra read to her. She would have stopped after three pages, but Dorothea urged her to keep going. All the while, Petra was aware of the songstress’ gaze darting between her mouth and eyes. Learning in earnest.

Every couple pages, Petra would stop and explain what was happening, pointing out important phrasings or sentence structures. Dorothea nodded along enthusiastically, asking questions.

It was only the low burn of the candle, and the interruption of a poorly stifled yawn on Dorothea’s part, that told them how late it had gotten.

“I am hoping this lesson is not too boring. Stories are of more interest when you are understanding the language.”

“This was… you’re a very good teacher, Petra. I’m sorry. It’s been a _very_ long time since I had someone to read to me. I forgot how… soothing it is. Especially when the words sound so beautiful.”

Petra’s cheeks warmed and she ducked her head. She folded a loose piece of parchment and tucked it in between the pages of her book, marking their place for later. “I am having thanks, Dorothea. I am not much experienced in teaching, but if I am being truthful… it is very nice to be speaking my own language.”

“I can’t wait until I can actually understand it.” Petra knew the mischievous smile that appeared on Dorothea’s face then. Her eyes twinkled as she leaned forward and said, “We can trade secrets, just the two of us, and no one will be able to understand. Can you imagine? We can gossip about Edie and the professor right in front of them and they’ll be none the wiser.” She sighed indulgently. Her hand was back on Petra’s knee.

Together they cleaned the mess from the floor, and Dorothea gathered her belongings to leave. When she opened the door, Petra could see the moon hanging high in the sky. It was later than she’d realized, judging by the position.

Before Dorothea could depart for the night, a thought occurred to Petra. “Wait,” she called out, retrieving the storybook from where she’d left it on her bed. Without hesitation, she offered it to Dorothea, “I am thinking you could be reading this, before our next lesson. It is helpful to see what you have been listening to.”

“Oh,” Dorothea almost sounded surprised. She looked down at the book, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you sure? I know it’s very special.”

“Yes,” Petra nodded resolutely. “You are always treating my things with care.” They’d been lending each other pieces of jewelry and small totems for months, handling each other’s possessions with the utmost delicacy. Petra barely handled this book herself, but if there was anyone she knew she could entrust it to, it was Dorothea.

“True,” Dorothea agreed, taking the book gently into her hands. She traced over the wolf’s outline with the tip of her finger, seeming uncharacteristically bashful. “I’ll be sure to bring it back for our next lesson.”

Petra smiled. It would only be next door, in Dorothea’s room. “I am thanking you for letting me teach you tonight, Dorothea.”

“You’re thanking me?” Dorothea chuckled, re-tucking the same strand of hair behind her ear. She tended to do that when she was nervous, Petra knew. What could possibly be making her nervous now?

“It is meaning a lot to me that you are interested in my homeland. Most are not.”

“Well, it means a lot to me that you would share these things with me. Brigid has to be a wonderful place. _You_ came from there, after all.” Dorothea disarmed her with a smile, cheeky as always.

There was an odd flutter in Petra’s chest all of a sudden. They’d spent so many evenings together, so many nights locked away in each other’s dorm rooms sharing stories and memories and jokes. Something about this night though, about the way the moonglow fell over Dorothea’s face and smile, about the way she held one of Petra’s most treasured tokens to her chest, it just felt… different.

_Dorothea was always different,_ she reminded herself.

She didn’t realize she was staring until Dorothea leaned forward, her lips lightly grazing Petra’s cheek. “Sweet dreams,” Dorothea muttered.

An even odder thing happened then, to compound the new wyvern’s wings flapping in Petra’s chest. Without thinking, she responded, in quick Brigidian, “_Volé ot fîzon sen.”_

_Only if you make them._

Petra did not remember much of her mother, but she remembered her and Petra’s father exchanging the same words before sleep each night.

What had made her say such a thing to _Dorothea_?

“What does that mean?”

Petra’s cheeks were burning so badly she felt like she’d swallowed stars. “Maybe after a few lessons,” she cleared her throat, “you will be finding out for yourself.”

“Ooh, a challenge. You know how I love those.” Petra nodded hastily. “I think you’ll be surprised, Petra,” Dorothea smirked, walking back to her door. “I’m a rather quick learner.”

_Hopefully not too quick,_ Petra thought to herself, falling back against her own closed door a minute later. She still needed time to admit to _herself_ why she was saying such silly things to begin with.


End file.
